University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
THE REBEL AND THE YANKEE.

BILL BAKER was awake at last, and from his hiding
place had seen Capt. Carleton and Isaac disappear
beneath the trees in the distance.

“They are goners,” he muttered to himself, “Won't
that snap dragon of a widow be mad, though, when she
hears how they've got Ike. Poor Ike, I'd help him if I
could, but 'taint no use interferin' now,” and with this
reflection, Bill turned his attention toward the stranger,
watching him for several minutes, first to decide his
politics, and second, to calculate his probable strength.
The soldier was at least a head taller than Bill, who nevertheless

far exceeded him in strength of muscle and power
of endurance.

“I can manage him,” was Bill's contemptuous comment,
and feeling in his pocket for the strong cord Rose Mather
had bound round his paper parcel of turnovers and
cheese, he prepared to spring upon his foe in the rear
and take him by surprise.

The cracking twigs betrayed him, and changing his
tactics he walked directly in front of the astonished young
man, who, with heightened color, haughtily demanded
“what he was doing there,—and whether he were a friend
or foe.”

“What am I doin' here?” Bill repeated, sticking his
cap a little more to one side, and half shutting one of his
wicked grey eyes, “Kinder peekin' round to see what I
can find. Be I friend or foe? You must be green to ask
that. Don't you re-cog-nize my regimentals, made after
the cut of Uncle Sam, siled some, to be sure, but then
I've been at a dirty job,—been lickin' jest such scamps as
you. Now, then, corporal, seein' I answered you civil,
what are you doin' here? You won't answer me, hey?”
he continued, as the stranger deigned him no other reply
than a look of ineffable disdain. “Wall, then, if you're
so 'fraid of your tongue, s'posin' we try a rastle, rough
and tumble, you know; and the one that gits beat is
t'other's prisoner. That's fair, as these dead folks will
witness;” and Bill's glance for the first time fell upon the
bodies lying near them,—upon Charlie's childish face,
with the golden curls clustering around it.

The sight touched a tender chord in Bill, and forgetting
for a moment his new acquaintance, he bent over
the drummer boy, murmuring,

“Poor child, your folks or'to have been ashamed to let
you come to war.”

Now was the Rebel's time. He felt intuitively that he
was no match for the thick-set, brawny Bill. Safety lay
alone in flight, and with a sudden bound he fled like a
deer.

“Nuff said,” dropped from Bill's lips, and the next instant
he, too, was flying through the woods in pursuit of
the foe.

It proved an unequal race, and Bill's strong arms ere
long closed like a vice around the struggling soldier, who
resisted manfully, until resistance was vain, and then
sullenly stood still, while Bill fastened his hands behind
him, with the cords unwittingly furnished by Rose Mather!

“Don't squirm so, corporal,” Bill said, as he bound the
knots securely, with his knee upon the back of the stranger,
whom he had thrown upon his face. “Don't squirm
so like an eel and I'll be done the quicker. I calkerlate
to tie you so you can't git away, and you may as well
hold on. Got kinder delicate hands, haint you? Never
done nothin', I guess, but lick niggers and shute your
betters. There, you may stan' up now if you want tew.”

The young man struggled to his feet, saying, proudly:

“What do you intend doing next, sir?”

“What do I intend doin'?” Bill replied, with imperturbable
gravity. “I intend leadin' you by this string
inter camp, and showin' you up for to'pence a sight.
What d'ye s'pose I intended doin'?”

The young man made one more desperate struggle to
free himself, but the twine only cut into his flesh, making
the matter worse, so he finally submitted to his fate, and
suffered Bill to take him where he listed. Bill was in no
hurry to get to camp. He rather enjoyed being alone
with his prisoner, and leading him to a little thicket he
made him sit down, and placing one of his feet upon him
he began to ask him innumerable questions,—what was

his name, where did he come from, what company was he
in, and so on, to none of which did the stranger vouchsafe
a reply.

With a haughty look upon his handsome face, he
maintained a rigid silence, while Bill continued:

“Needn't talk unless you want to. Speech is free with
us, you know; but seein' you won't tell who you be,
maybe you wouldn't mind hearing my geneology. It'll
make you feel better, mabby, to know my reputation and
standin' in society. Corporal, did you ever hear of a
Yankee, a real live mudsill Yankee, such as Southern
gentlemen feel above fightin' with? Wall, I'm that critter.
What do you think of me, take me as a hull?”

The stranger groaned in disgust, and Bill continued:

“Them cords hurt you, I guess. Like enough I'll
ease 'em up a trifle, if you say so. I ain't hard-hearted, if
I be rough as a nutmeg-grater. Shall I loosen 'em so's
not to hurt them soft, baby hands of yourn?”

“Thank you, sir. I don't mind it in the least,” was
the soldier's answer, though all the while the coarse
twine was cutting cruelly into the tender flesh.

This Bill suspected, and muttering to himself:

“Good grit, if he is a Rebel,” he went on: “Considerable
top-lofty, ain't you, corporal? And as chaps of
your cloth like to meet with their equals, I'll go on with
my history. I was born in Massachusetts, not over a
day's ride from Boston. Ever been to Boston?”

No answer from the stranger, save a heightened color,
and Bill proceeded:

“Tall old town. Got a smashin' monument out to
Charlestown. Heard on't I s'pose, as I take it some of
you Southern dogs can read. Wall, father died in State's
Prison down there to Charlestown, and then we moved
to Rockland, the old woman, Hal and me. Hal's lyin'
up there where the hottest of the fight took place, and

I'm here tormentin' you by tellin' you my character.
I've been to the work-house twice,—I have, I swan,—once
for gettin' drunk, and once for somethin' else a good deal
wus. How do you feel now?” and Bill leered wickedly
at the young man, who seemed bent on keeping silence.

Only the expression of his face told the extreme contempt
he felt for his companion, and how it did wound
to the quick one of his nature to be held a prisoner by
such as William Baker. But there was no help for it;
he must submit to be taken to Washington by the
despised Bill, and then,—oh, how his heart sank within
him as he thought, what then? Was there no method
of escape? Couldn't he get away, or better yet, couldn't
he hire Bill to let him go? Strange he had not thought
of this before. Yankees were proverbially avaricious,
and almost every man had his price. He could try, at
all events, and unbending his dignity, he inquired what
Bill would ask to let him go?

“What'll I ask?” repeated Bill, placing both feet
instead of one upon his prisoner. “I dun know. Le'ss
dicker a spell and see. What'll you give, and where
do you keep your traps?”

“In my pockets,” the unsuspecting soldier answered;
“there's my watch and chain, worth over three hundred
dollars.”

“Whew-ew!” whistled Bill, his face lighting up instantly,
while hope crept into the stranger's heart. “A
gold watch worth over three hundred! Let's see the
critter.”

“You forget that my hands are tied,” the stranger
suggested.

“So they be, but mine ain't,” and the next moment
Bill was holding to his ear an elegant Parisian watch,
and asking if the stranger were positive sure it cost
more'n three hundred dollars. “I had an old pewter

thing that I gin to mother,” he said, “and this concern jest
comes in play. It's mine, you say, if I'll let you cut
stick and run?”

“Yes, sir; I give you that in exchange for my liberty.”

“Wall, now, kind a generous, ain't you? But I want
you should fling in something to clinch the bargain. A
chap of your cloth is of more valley than three hundred.
What else have you got, corporal?” and laying the watch
carefully upon the grass, Bill's hand a second time sought
the stranger's pocket, bringing out an expensive and
exquisitely wrought quizzing-glass.

“Wall, now, if these ain't the curisest spectacles!” he
exclaimed. “I'll jest see how a Reb looks through 'em,”
and adjusting them to his eyes, Bill walked demurely
around his prisoner, and then standing at a little distance
inspected him minutely, as if he had been some
curious monster. “Hanged if I can see in 'em, but
mabby they'll suit the old woman to hum,” he said,
placing the glass beside the watch, and adding: “Watch
and spectacles ain't enough, corporal. What more have
you got? Ain't there a ring on one of your hands?”

“Yes, a costly diamond,” was the faint response, and
Bill ere long was trying in vain to push it over his
large joints.

“It don't fit me, but I guess 'twill my gal, when I git
one,” he said, laying that, too, with the watch and eye-glass.

A silver tobacco-box and handsome cigar-case followed
next, the stranger groaning mentally, as a faint suspicion
of Bill's real intentions crossed his mind. There remained
now but one more article, the dearest of all the
young Rebel possessed, and the perspiration started from
every pore as he felt the rough hand again within his
pockets, and knew he could not prevent it.

“Oh, no, no, no, not that! Spare me that. Do not
open it, please!” and the haughty tone was changed to
one of earnest supplication, as Bill drew forth a small
daguerrean case, and placed his dirty thumb upon the
spring.

Something in the stranger's voice made him pause a
moment, but anything like delicacy of feeling was unknown
to the rough Bill, and the next instant he was
feasting his rude gaze upon the features which the Rebel
youth had guarded almost religiously, even from his
equals in camp. How beautiful that girlish face was,
with its bright laughing eyes, and soft chestnut curls
falling in such profusion around the childish brow, and
upon the smooth, white neck. Even Bill was awed into
silence, while a feeling of bewilderment crept over him
as if he had seen that face before, and mingled with this
feeling came remembrances of that last day at home,
when fair hands, which, ere he was a soldier, would have
scorned to touch such as he, had waved him an adieu.

“Whew-ew!” he whistled, at last. “Ain't she pretty,
though? Your sweet-heart, I guess,” and he leered at
the stranger, who made him no reply; only the lips
quivered, and in the dark eyes there was a gathering
moisture; but when Bill asked, “May I have this, too, if
I'll let you go?” the stranger answered, promptly:

“Never! I'll die a thousand deaths before I'll part
with that! Liberty is not worth that price. Give me
back the picture, and I'll go with you willingly where-ever
you please. Do give it back,” he added, in an
agony of fear, as Bill continued gazing at it, and making
his remarks.

“Can't a feller look at a gal on glass if he wants to? I
wouldn't hurt the little critter if I could as well as not.

So you won't give her to me, nor tell me who 'tis,
neither?”

“Stranger,” said the Rebel, “have you any feelings of
refinement?”

“Nary feelin',” and Bill shook his head, but did not
withdraw his eyes from the picture.

“Well, then, have you a wife?”

“Nary wife. Nobody would have Bill Baker.”

“Nor sister?”

“Nary sister but a dead one that I never seen.”

“Nor mother? You surely have a mother,” and the
soldier's voice shook with strong emotion.

“You've got me there,” and Bill's eyes turned upon
his prisoner. “I have a mother, and you ought to hear
the old gal take on when she comes home from washin'
from Miss Martherses or some of the big bugs and finds
Hal dead drunk on the trundle-bed, and me not a great
sight better. Handsome old gal,—one of the kind that
don't wear hoops, but every time she steps takes her
gownd up on her heels, you know.”

The Rebel groaned aloud. There was no tender point
upon which his captor could be touched, and the tears
rained over his handsome face as he begged of Bill to
give him at least the ambrotype.

“It's the only thing which has prevented me from being
a perfect villain,” he said. “It has kept me from
the wine cup, and from the gambler's den.”

“Pity it hadn't kept you out of the Southern army,”
was Bill's dry response, and the stranger answered,
eagerly:

“I wish it had, I wish it had! Please give it back,
and I'll swear allegiance to the veriest minion in Lincoln's
train.”

“I never thought no great of a turncoat,” Bill replied,

closing the case, and still holding it in his hand. “If
you're a Southern dog, stay so, not go to barkin' on both
sides. We don't want no traitors. Honest, though,
corporal, where was you born? There's a kind of nateral
look in your face, as if I'd seen it afore,” and Bill laid
the ambrotype upon the grass.

But with regard to his birth-place, the stranger was
non-committal; and Bill continued:

“If I let you go, you'll give me the watch?”

“Willingly, willingly.”

“And the spetacles?”

“Yes, oh yes.”

“And the glass bead ring?”

“Yes, everything but the picture.”

“Don't be so fast,” Bill rejoined. “I'll get to that
bimeby. Watch, spetacles, glass bead ring, tobarker-box,
and this other thingumbob, but not the picter, if I'll
let you go? And you'll go with me to Washington, and
be showed up like a caravan if I'll give up the picter?
Them's the terms as I understand.”

“Yes,” the stranger gasped, a shadow of hope stealing
into his heart.

Alas, how soon it was erased by Bill's continuing:

“Yankees ain't generally very green. We can make
you Southern bloods buy wooden cowcumber-seeds any
time of day, and do you s'pose I'm goin' to let you off
at any price? No SIR! If you go to war, you must take
the chances of war. I ain't a-goin' to hurt you, and
I'll ease up them strings if you say so, but, corporal,
you're my prisoner; and these traps,” laying his hand
upon the various articles upon the grass, “these traps,
picter and all, I con-fis-cate as con-tra-band! How do
you feel now?” and Bill coolly pocketed his contrabands,
all save the watch, which he adjusted about his neck.

There was a fierce storm of tears, and sobs, and wild
entreaties, and then the poor discouraged soldier was
still, his white face wearing again its look of cold,
haughty reserve, and his whole manner indicative of the
aversion he felt for the vulgar Bill, upon whom the feeling
was entirely lost, for though Bill knew the proud
Southerner felt above him, he could not appreciate the
feelings which made the young man shrink from him as
from a loathsome reptile. Bill had no intention of treating
him cruelly, and as by this time the night shadows
were creeping into the woods, he sought out a dryer and
more sheltered spot, and bade his prisoner sleep while
he sat by and watched. It seemed preposterous that
the stranger should sleep under so great excitement, but
human nature could endure no longer without rest, and
when at last the stars came out, they shone down upon
that tired soldier, sleeping upon the grass, with Bill sitting
near, and watching as he slept. There were visions
of home, and of the battle, too, it would seem, mingled
in the young man's dreams, for he talked sometimes
with his mother, asking her to forgive her boy, and take
him back again to her love; then he was pleading for
another, a captive it would seem, asking that nought
but the best of care should come to the wounded officer;
and then the picture flitted across his mind, for he held
converse with the original, and Bill, listening to him,
muttered:

“'Twas his gal, or sister, sure; I'm sorry for him, I
vum, but hanged if I'll give it up. It's contraband according
to war. He needn't of jined the army.”

And so the weary night wore on, the deep stillness of
the Virginia woods broken occasionally by the shouts of
riders as they passed by, in search of whatever there
was to find. Once, as the shouts came near, the soldier

started up, but ere the scream for help had passed his
lips, Bill's hand was laid firmly upon them, and Bill himself
whispered fiercely.

“One yelp, and I gag you with the handkerchief the
old woman took from her pocket and gin me the mornin'
I come from home. She takes snuff, too, the old woman
does!”

There was a gesture of disgust, and then the stranger
became quiet again, while the shouts died away in the
distance and were not heard again that night. The
morning broke at last, and just as it was growing light,
Bill, aroused by the falling rain from the slumber into
which he had inadvertently fallen, awoke his prisoner,
and led him safely through the pickets of the enemy
without encountering a human being. They were a
strange looking couple, and when, on the following day,
they reached Washington, they attracted far more attention
than the prisoner desired, for he shrunk nervously
from the curious gaze fixed upon him, refusing to answer
all questions as to his name or birthplace, and appearing
glad when at last he was relieved from Bill's surveillance
and led to his prison home.